


Rarified

by helloliriels



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A Study in Pink, AU, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, M/M, Modern Day, Rare Senses, S1-S2 compliant, Soulmates, Synesthesia, beginning so far, of a sort
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-29
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-15 02:49:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29056971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helloliriels/pseuds/helloliriels
Summary: Soulmates are rareSeeing in color, is rarifiedJohn meets Sherlock - and both of their worlds change forever
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 2
Kudos: 18





	1. The City of Fog

* * *

_"I wander thro' each charter'd street,_

_Near where the charter'd Thames does flow._

_And mark in every face I meet_

_Marks of weakness, marks of woe." - William Blake, London_

* * *

Soulmates are rare. 

John Watson grows up knowing the statistics;

Less than 40% of the population will ever _find_ their soulmate. Not in this life. Perhaps in the next? If there is another (he isn't sure);

and even fewer... less than 10% of those (4% overall), have ever had the chance to see the world in color.

Not that they only see in grey.

It's hard to know. In the city of fog - where everything loses it's brilliance. It is often hidden behind the curtain of mist that envelopes the city.

Only those few who have a chance to see it, to experience it, truly know they would never trade that chance for the world.

Watson is finding out now, just _how_ rare this status can be.

And why it must be so enviable.

His class graduated, ten bright young things. Hopefuls all, and the best of pals. Swearing that when they found their soulmate and managed to see the world in color at last (as if!) - they would be the one to pioneer the breakthrough research that was needed on the subject... John most of all.

One-by-one he had seen his classmates join the military, serving Queen and Country. And he had eventually succumbed to join them there. A chance to see the world. A chance to explore. Excitement. Adventure.

As the next four years proceeded, he watched them, as they subsequently fell - in the war that followed. Burying them, one-by-one with his own hands.

Plans of Fellowships, Awards, Research, and glory - now a million miles from his thoughts.

As he fought to survive.

To live.

To make it, back home. _And to what?_

At twenty-four, he had returned to London.

A wreck of his former self.

A gunshot wound to the shoulder had put paid to his military career. And no amount of metals impressed a recruiter when they saw his limp, and the weight beyond his years, that now hung about his shoulders, stooping him low when he stood still - if he wasn't paying attention or caring anymore...

...

He turned on the light in his little bedsit. Sitting down by the bed, at a small table that served both as desk, nightstand, and takeout ordering station. It might as well have been a hotel room.

This abysmal rental unit was not spacious enough to warrant the title of flat or studio - something a grown-up (a real adult) would have - but he had frankly been lucky to afford it. 

It took him all of five minutes to unpack what little he brought home with from the war. He looked at the mostly-empty drawers as he pulled them out. Wondering what he should fill them with. When he would fill them. If.

His eyes lingered on the handgun that he had brought back with him from the last tour of duty. He technically should have turned it in. But nobody had asked. And somehow, he hadn't wanted to part with it.

Not yet.

His thoughts were not in the best place. And he knew it. He cleared them from his head. Pinching his nose and calming his breath. He needed to get himself out the door. Go apply for more work. Go try to see people. Find friends. 

Must be someone he still knew in London. He just had to expend the effort to find them.

He would.

He told himself.

Just not today.

Amazing how any move, no matter how light. Wears you out. He was tired to his core. Had been for a while.

 _Getting old, Watson._ He told himself. And turned out the light.

***

Harry's text awoke him earlier than he expected. 

He sat up and slapped at the phone. Throwing his sheets off to stretch and relieve the tension in his shoulder. His legs. His back. His neck.

A new mattress would be needed. If nothing else.

But that would take money.

He sent off a reply that only a brother can get away with. And went through his morning routine. Movements and patterns he had established in training for Her Majesty's service that came as second nature to him now. A routine he found comfort in performing with precision and order.

Order

and Method

were about the only thing providing some stability, in the chaos of his life right now.

The psychologist had recommended that he lean on that order.

Use it as a crutch.

It had helped him through the years of military service after all. And would give his mind something to focus on as it healed. Like the walking cane was for his leg. Like the gun was to his sense of security and protective nature. As he adjusted to civilian life. 

At least the hot water of the shower was one luxury he _could_ afford. And he was going to use every last drop of it that he could eke out. Closing his eyes, and letting it wash away the cynicism he hoped he could escape. To get through the day. He needed some hope. Something to start _living_ for.

"You're going to talk to three people today, Watson," he told himself. That's it. Make it through three. And you can go back home. Hide. Recuperate. Try again tomorrow. 

Agoraphobia was hard to get over. He should know. The hardest step was to get yourself out the door again. To make the effort. Push past the fear. How often he had seen it before in others? But he refused to give in to his fear of crowds. Of the outside world. Of others. And so he had moved back to London.

He was a fighter.

John Watson was a fighter.

And what he wanted, was fight. _Worth living for._

***

(.... to be continued)


	2. Invisible Man

* * *

> _"Diamonds_
> 
> _What dying stars left_
> 
> _a cosmic dust trailing, caressing earth's mantle at birth_
> 
> _Creation waiting - precision, pressure perfect to create, crystallize_
> 
> _Adamas, the Greeks called you_
> 
> _invincible, untamed_
> 
> _unbreakable fire-beauty yet captured from within_
> 
> _transferring heat, casting light to cut and polish others_
> 
> _Heavenly dust sprinkled_
> 
> _from your fingers_
> 
> _to slide unto mine_
> 
> _promising to catch a falling star..." - 'Dust of Creation', Heather M. Brown_

* * *

When it first happened, John was hardly paying attention. He might have missed it.

The streets of London were always busy.

Having a shoulder pressed up against him, or a hand brush past his jeans was nothing unusual to speak of in the course of crowd surfing. Everyday hazards of the game. Woolen jumpers were worn loose. Jeans were coarse and baggy. Skin was thick and calloused. Eyes were kept to oneself.

Every accidental contact leading up to that moment, had been of the sterile, "Sorry-I-Didn't-See-You-There," polite apology type; or the, "I-can't-be-arsed-to-look-where-I'm-going" and "why-were-you-in-my-way-type". John was feeling invisible.

He supposed he should find that comforting... but as he kept walking, he suddenly felt the urge to grab the lapel of the next man who passed him by, and to scream in his face, "NOTICE ME!". To do something drastic, just to get a reaction.

Of course, he didn't. Of course, he wouldn't.

It wasn't like John Watson to demand attention. So he continued,

Unseen,

Unseeing.

One of many. No one of note.

His feet turned to cross the street amongst a well bundled group of east-enders, a grain of sand in the sea, as one wave of the crowd passed another, going the other way. John had been staring down at his shoes. Eyes assessing the condition of his worn out laces. Barely focused.

When he saw it.

First a hand brushed past his fingertips.

Lingered, half a second too-long to be a passerby...

Then a flicker of purple on the edge of his shoe.

Like lightening had licked it.

An ultraviolet glow that flashed and then disappeared. Clear as day.

He stopped. Dead still in traffic. Letting the current break upon him. A median to be navigated around or broken against.

He had blinked. And it was gone.

His head shot up. Fingers still buzzing, warm from the contact of a stranger that had awakened him. He flexed his hand and spun himself around, to catch a glimpse of who? What? Had caused this occurrence. But could see nothing. A sea of monotone faces and receding hairlines bobbed up and down the street passing him by. No recognition in any of them. Still invisible.

At the very least, someone else should be paused, surely? Left stupefied? An awe on their face to indicate that they too had just had a world-altering experience? But there was no one. Nothing.

Just wooden clothespins. On a laundry line. Going this and that way. As he stood stock-still.

His mind a blank. In shock.

He had _seen_ color.

And he had lost it.

***

(... to be continued) 


	3. Second Chances

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Watson decides to frequent the area in the off-chance that whomever it was, might appear again. It was a fools hope, he knew. But as nothing else was on, he might as well try.

***

John became a regular sight for the members of the London Tube station.

Although that crowd seemed to change by the minute, he somehow felt they were always the same people passing through, just wearing different skins. Old woman Josie, was now old woman Mabel today. Jack the busker, was now Eric the busker. The social media influencer and the young professional banker were always present.

Same players. Same game.

I live in a matrix, he thought. Nothing ever changes. Nothing is real.

He wondered what character he was in theirs eyes? Now that he had chosen to get out of the house more and brave the tube, he had seen the looks that others threw his way. Or rather, turned away, bearing.

He supposed it was either the crutch or the snarl he wore on his face that made people react that way.

He didn't care.

He _should_ smile, right? Fuck that. Try to be cheerful, mate! PISS OFF. Try to not look so... so.... depressed? I AM depressed. He wanted to shout back.

He had run into Mike Stamford the other day in the park, and practically ran to try and get away from the man. But he _was_ like glue. Always a ball of sticky cheer, Stamford. If he had been himself - the self he knew himself to be _before_ the war - he would have relished in Mike Stamford's company. Someone so jovial was always a pleasure to be around.

_Except when you're miserable_. John thought.

_Misery loves company, right?..._ John smirked at the thought.

Something Mike was wont to say to him in the good ol' days. Back when they really were 'bright young things' like they spoke of yesterday.

Mike would have tried so hard to cheer him up. Mike was a ray of sunshine. But John needed space. He had thanked Mike for the invite and the possibility of a flatmate, but he really wasn't ready yet. He'd think on it. Get back to him.

He was getting himself inoculated to 'people' again, but it might be a while before he would be ready for 'a person'. An actual human being. Someone who would expect him to interact. _To talk_. And maybe even open up. In some ways at least, if not only due to proximity of sharing a place.

It sounded nice.

It sounded overwhelming.

He sighed.

_Let's take it slow_. He told himself. First people. Get used to being around people.

Then a person.

Then... maybe, a friend.

He clicked his way past the turnstile in the direction of the packed escalator. Heading to the surface of London's streets. Kings Cross station disappearing behind him as he ascended. So many bodies every which way he looked. He thought of the ominous fire decades ago and shivered. Imagining the fire that would have taken up that hall, and the impossibility of moving far enough, fast enough to get away.

As his mind was daydreaming, he heard a scream. And then a flash of bright yellow orange hit his vision. He reflexively closed his eyes and tried to shield himself from the blast... of... what? There was no fire. No blast. No explosion.

For half a second, he thought maybe there had been? But no, all was quiet. All was business as usual as far as he could see.

But he COULD see. That was the point. He had seen color, yet again. He laughed out loud and clapped his hand over his mouth. He scanned around, eyes still giggling. WHO WAS IT?? Who had been the cause? Could he find her again?

The crowd was still moving. He couldn't distinguish anyone here. And who had screamed? Had he imagined it?

Something attracted his attention, and he turned to look. A Young man with raven black curls was running through the crowd, from the direction the scream had issued. He was chasing a hooded figure on foot, yelling "Stop! Police!" and throwing himself up onto the railing, lithely maneuvering the slide down the rail, and then leaping down to be lost in the crowd as he continued his pursuit...

Watson was stunned.

It was beautiful.

_He_ was beautiful.

He acted like a cat.

A jaguar on the hunt for prey. 

Watson wished him luck.

Watson wished...

he wished he could have joined in.

_Looked like fun._ He thought.

Huh.

_Fun._

_Maybe it is good for me to get out more._ He thought. And took the final step up to the pavement outside.

***

(to be continued...)

**Author's Note:**

> Rarified (definition):
> 
> (adjective) of high moral or intellectual value; elevated in nature or style.


End file.
